


Thy Perfect Light

by bhaer



Series: Before The Storm [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Childhood Trauma, Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Homophobia, I'm sorry I can't write anything happy, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas 1820. A young, ever-fanatical Enjolras makes a series of choices that will affect the rest of his short life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thy Perfect Light

_Glorious now behold Him arise,_

_King and God and Sacrifice._

_Alleluia, alleluia!_

_Sounds through the earth and skies._

            —  "We Three Kings”

**December 25th, 1820**

The grown-ups are drunk. There have been seven wines and thirteen desserts and more cacophonous singing than Enjolras can take, and now, the grown-ups are drunk.

The night is fading, and soon they will all go to bed, only to shuffle up at noon with red eyes and gasping requests for “a damned cup of tea.” Enjolras is glad for a chance at privacy. He had meant to pray the Rosary after Midnight Mass, only to be pulled from his meditations by a hysterical Cousin Rosemonde, to a meal that tasted of sawdust in his mouth. It was rude for the host’s son not to attend dinner. It was rude for the host’s son not to touch the food. Was there something wrong with the food? Aunt had asked in a simpering voice. Nothing, only that there was so much of it. And yes, some of it (the nougat especially) had been very good, but whenever Enjolras felt himself begin to enjoy it, he was reminded of the beggars that descended upon their carriage on the way to Mass. What they, in their rags, wouldn’t have given for just the crumbs of the cake.

Maman laughs throatily, pulling Enjolras out of his reverie. Papa is attempting to feed her bits of candy with his stubby fingers but she just giggles and turns to Uncle, elbows pressing her breasts close together. Rosemonde watches and claps her chubby, pink hands over her mouth to hide her high-pitched giggles. She is only thirteen but she is drunk as well, or is pretending to be drunk to assert her burgeoning maturity. Enjolras eyes her suspiciously and sips at his own glass of wine primly.

He enjoys the taste, more than he should, but despises the dizzy nausea he gets after overindulging. Why would anyone enjoy feeling ill? It is beyond him. In a few hours he is sure to hear his mother gag through the thin walls of the nursery. It is unpleasant because it still startles a hint of childish sympathy in him. It also distracts him from his prayers.

“Alexxx,” Rosemonde cooes at him. “Alex!” It takes all his willpower not to snap at her.

“Yes, cousin?”

“Didn’t you think Captain Villepin looked _hand_ some at Mass?”

It is a trap. Enjolras is not sure how, or why, but he knows it is a trap. He offers his inevitable future embarrassment up for the Virgin.

“He looked perfectly fine,” Enjolras says stiffly. The women all laugh uproariously and, in a moment of weakness, he hides his burning face in his glass of wine. It’s bitter on his tongue.

“Even _Alex_ thinks he’s handsome,” Rosemonde says pointedly to her father. Uncle shrugs and Enjolras looks to him for support.

“Leave the poor boy alone, Rosie,” Uncle murmurs in mock sincerity before cackling. “He’s already smitten, you see. You can’t ask him to judge for you when his heart’s clearly taken.”

Everyone laughs.

“You must be mistaken,” Enjolras hisses, though he is sure no one cares to hear him. He has an uneasy feeling he knows where the conversation is going.

“Darling, there’s no need to hide your affection. We’re all very open-minded here,” Maman chokes between hysterical giggles.

“I’ve told him time and time again,” Papa confides to Uncle. “I don’t care what tomfoolery he gets up to with that Combe-ferret-y boy, as long as it’s not in my sitting room and the neighbors don’t talk.” Uncle nods seriously. “Right, of course, of course. Very wise, Michel.”

Enjolras was right. He is sure he is scarlet; his composure, so carefully held together over a day’s injustices, is finally fraying.

“You know,” Maman says with a devilish glint in her eyes, “I was wondering where the olive oil in my boudoir went. Half a vial simply _disappeared_.”

“I assure you, I have no idea where your olive oil went, nor do I understand half of what you all are implying!” Enjolras cries out in an unexpected burst of anger, his stomach lurching unsteadily. They all quieted down to stare at him.

“Mon chouchou, do not be embarrassed. It’s all quite natural,” Aunt says over her half-moon spectacles.

“I’m sure Monsieur Combeferre will make you a lovely wife,” Rosemonde adds between fistfuls of cake.

“Do you suppose he wears a dress when Alex takes him?” Maman muses to Papa. “It had better not be the other way around, I can tell you that,” Uncle interjects.

Enjolras has a brief remembrance of lace against his fingertips. It is more than he can take. He only just barely makes it to the hall before he vomits into an antique vase. He can hear Maman hum soothingly behind him and feels her sweaty hand on his neck.

“I’m fine,” he says as soon as he can say anything. Maman pouts.

“My poor, dear Alex. Such a sensitive stomach. Did their silly jokes upset you that much?” She reaches to feel his forehead. He jerks away.

“Does their teasing really anger you to such a degree?”

He is silent, so she tries another approach. With a lopsided smile, she jokes, “At least I’m spared from worrying that that boy has gotten you pregnant.”

He doesn’t think. “You’re an awful, horrible, bawdy _bitch_.”

Maman mouths wildly like a landed trout. For a moment, Enjolras is frightened she will strike him. He bares himself proudly to receive the blow, but Maman just sort of crumbles against the wall. Up close, he sees where the powder has smudged with her sweat, leaving behind several canyons of wrinkles.

“I know he fucks you. I’ve seen it,” she whispers. Enjolras sighs. She is lying and she cannot hurt him.

“Go to bed, Maman. You will feel better.”

No longer caring that he is being rude, he slips up the stairs to his bedroom. The portraits of his forefathers glare down at their unhappy heir, but for once, their seeming omnipotence feels sad more than scary. In all likelihood those droll, rouged faces were just as his parents: drunk and disgraceful.

He wants to write a scathing letter to Combeferre describing the abuse, but something in the taste of bile fresh on his tongue stops him halfway through the opening address. He tells himself that it was only a joke, meant to wound, that Combeferre would be sympathetic and wonderfully comforting. He tells himself not to think anything of it, but the words still will not come.

So he grabs his rosary from the dresser and recites the usual prayers, kneeling before the crucifix over his bed in his usual piety. The words come, because he has repeated them into oblivion. There is no feeling. Underneath the hollow words is an image far more comforting than the feel of glass beads in his palm: he sees Combeferre wheezing and laughing, lying on the yellowed August grass, a sheen of sweat glistening over the auburn beginnings of a beard. Enjolras smiles in spite of himself.

An erratic knock on the door breaks the fantasy. He is gripping the beads so tightly that the tendons in his hand stand out stark in the candlelight. The knocking continues.

“Don’t be mad at me, Cousin,” Rosemonde says breathlessly. Did she run up the stairs or is she simply drunk? The conundrum provides a welcome respite from his earlier thoughts.

“I’m not mad,” Enjolras lies icily. Rosemonde sucks out her lower lip in a babyish pout.

“You’re a liar. Come on, we’re going to light the candle for the Virgin.” Enjolras momentarily wavers in his resolve to spend what remains of the night in fervent prayer. He loves the tradition, childish as it may be, of lighting one candle in front hall window in case the Virgin Mary stops by. It’s a sort of prayer in itself, the kind of prayer even his mother can take part in.

“I’m tired, Rosie.”

She sticks out her tongue. “Your maman won’t be pleased.”

“That’s for me to worry about. Good night, Cousin.” He shuts the door before she can reply and holds it still until he hears her unsteady footsteps clamor down the hall.

The rosary feels leaden in his hands and the pen far too cold. He wants to tear down the crucifix from where it leers above him. He wants to burn the correspondence from Combeferre under his mattress. He want to go downstairs and light the awful candle and make up with his mother.

Instead, desperate for a distraction, he reaches towards a pile of presents from his schoolfellows, not meant to be touched until the New Year. He’s feeling reckless and tears the brown paper off the first misshapen package. It’s a book, bound in red leather. He knows who it is from without reading the card. With hands shaking in anger, he begins to read.

_“L'homme est né libre, et partout il est dans les fers.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the veritable principality of people who helped bring this into being. This fic would not exist without Marianne's support, advice, and general sparkling personality. A very special notice to Sath and Nisie, my beautiful senpais, who helped me with silly things like period-appropriate use of 'shenanigans' and big things like pacing and Enjolras-characterization. Let it be known Perry is a hero of Greek proportions who spent a disgusting amount of time helping me work through Mamanjolras's olive-oil-as-lube-joke. Finally, shout-outs to Max and the entire MiseryPornVerse Skype chat. Without them, I would have shriveled into a ball of self-doubt within the first paragraph. I feel sorry for anyone who writes without these lovely humans there, cheering them on.
> 
> I promise that I really, really tried to write something happy for Christmas but if you're really disappointed, I'd remind you that you're reading _Victor Hugo fanfiction_. Think about that.
> 
> A very, very Happy Holidays to all of you. :)


End file.
